


boys of summer

by tootsonnewts



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Camp Counselor AU, M/M, i have never been to summer camp and it shows, keith is every summer camp movie cliche wrapped up in one boy, shiro pines and makes crafts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-06 05:13:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17339219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tootsonnewts/pseuds/tootsonnewts
Summary: “You got enough sunscreen on up there, champ?”Shiro laughs, swatting his hand away.“Gotta protect the goods, ya know?”Keith pauses for a moment, reaching up to spread the sunscreen a little further across Shiro’s cheekbones before stepping back and muttering a contemplative, “Protect the goods, indeed.”The last two weeks of summer camp had crept up on them both. Shiro’s last two weeks of summer camp ever, but he doesn’t like to think of that.summer camp is made for having fun, creating memories, and finally admitting your crushing, passionate love for your best friend.shiro manages at least two of these things.





	boys of summer

**Author's Note:**

> this was written for a cancelled zine.  
> it took me a lot longer to post than it probably should have for a myriad of reasons, but i'll leave that to rest.
> 
> it's several months old and i've tweaked it a bit from what it was before, but i hope you enjoy this all the same.  
> <3!

Keith’s tanned skin gleams with sweat under the summer sun. Shiro gulps quietly to himself, watching as Keith teaches a camper how to properly nock his arrow against the string of his tiny bow. His muscles flex smoothly with the action as he imitates drawing the string back, aiming with a deep breath and squinted eye, and releasing quietly on an exhale. The boy at his hip watches intently, toothy grin stretching wide as Keith steps back and gestures for him to give it a try. They both turn to the target, and Keith gives one final instruction before the boy draws the string back and launches his arrow — directly into the ground. Keith chuckles with a hand across his mouth as the boy stomps up to the offending projectile, glaring at it for its betrayal.

Shoulders shaking with laughter, Keith looks off to the side and locks eyes with Shiro.

Shiro’s entire focus narrows on Keith’s warm gaze, the summer heat ratcheting up with it. Keith is still smiling as he pats the camper on the shoulder and sets him up for another shot. Hands tucked in the pockets of his cargo shorts, Shiro casually strolls over until he’s within arm’s length. His fingers flex with the desire to stretch out and close the distance. Keith beats him to it, reaching up to tap his nose with calloused fingers.

“You got enough sunscreen on up there, champ?”

Shiro laughs, swatting his hand away.

“Gotta protect the goods, ya know?”

Keith pauses for a moment, reaching up to spread the sunscreen a little further across Shiro’s cheekbones before stepping back and muttering a contemplative, “Protect the goods, indeed.”

The last two weeks of summer camp had crept up on them both. Shiro’s last two weeks of summer camp _ever_ , but he doesn’t like to think of that.

He’d met Keith here back when they were campers themselves. All pointy elbows and scraped knees and missing teeth, they’d quickly struck up a friendship based on their shared love of exploration and floating down the river with Otter Pops piled high in their laps. Their friendship solidified over phone calls, letters, and being there for each other when nobody else was. Keith called Shiro often when he ran into trouble, and Shiro called constantly after the accident that took his arm. Now, years later, they still meet each summer to smile and laugh together as they teach kids archery and fishing, plucking ticks off little ankles and tugging unsuspecting first-timers out of the path of patches of poison ivy.

Two weeks left.

Two weeks to tell Keith how he really feels before he heads off to California to start on his master’s and make a real, adult life for himself.

Keith pats his shoulder and smiles softly up at him. His violet eyes are bright and sharp, studying Shiro’s features with the kind of attention to detail that flays him alive. Keith is the only person to ever look at him that way, the only one whose gaze can strike him nervous and exposed. Shiro wonders, sometimes, if Keith already knows how he feels.

“I’m gonna miss you, Takashi,” Keith whispers, and Shiro is undone.

He’s gonna tell him.

He just needs to figure out how.

 

+++

 

His first opportunity presents itself that very night. Each counselor gathers their group of kids around the massive bonfire built right in the center of camp on the clearest night of each camping cycle, and that night just happens to be it. They’re all laughing and smiling, telling awful ghost stories and singing cliched campfire tunes. Nobody is in tune or on tempo, and it’s the most wonderful time Shiro’s had in a while. It always is, really.

Not too long after the bonfire starts, Coran, the camp’s resident administrator, claps his hands and produces several giant bags of marshmallows, chocolate bars, and graham crackers.

“It’s not a bonfire without s’mores, don’t you agree?”

The next thirty minutes is spent entirely on making sure none of the kids burn themselves or anyone else as the counselors help skewer marshmallows and tug them from the fire just in time to keep them from going up in flames. They each remain so absorbed with the task that none of them have a chance to actually make one for themselves.

Because he is always a touch competitive in everything he does, Keith manages to have his cabin’s s’mores completed before anyone else. As Shiro helps his current camper turn their marshmallow in the fire, his eyes catch Keith’s watching him from across the flames. Keith smirks at him — a mischievous, feral thing — and makes his way over.

“You need some help there, grandpa?”

Shiro laughs at his challenge as he tucks the marshmallow between his camper’s graham crackers and sends him on his way. “This was the last one. But thanks, whippersnapper.”

Keith full out snorts at the jab and plops down beside Shiro on the log. Their thighs just barely touch, but it’s enough for Shiro’s skin to tingle with the contact. It’s the perfect opportunity, he thinks. Everyone is distracted by the roaring fire and each other. Keith is humming a little beside Shiro, the sound low and warm, and Shiro knows it’s got to be now.

He spears a new marshmallow and sets to work crafting Keith a s’more just how he knows he likes it: burnt-black marshmallow, light on the chocolate, half a graham cracker. When he’s finished, he presents his offering with a flourish.

“Here ya go, youngin’.”

Keith smiles, accepting the s’more with exaggerated reverence.

“Why, thank you so much, pop pop.”

His first bite is large and messy. The cracker snaps loud between his teeth, crumbs flying everywhere. The marshmallow and melted chocolate ooze out from the sides. Shiro watches in fond amusement as Keith pulls the sandwich away, a string of gooey marshmallow clinging stubbornly to his lip. He snaps the thread and tucks it in his mouth between pinched fingers, and licks around the edge of the s’more to catch the melted chocolate before it escapes.

Once he’s finished, Keith wipes his hands off on his dirt-stained cargo shorts and digs an elbow into Shiro’s side.

“Once these monsters head to bed, you wanna do the thing?”

Boy, does he ever.

They go skinny dipping after the campers are all tucked in. It’s a tradition of theirs, performed the night of each bonfire. They gather up some towels and a small radio and head out to a relatively private section of the lake, lit up brightly under the moon. Willows and river grasses surround the bank, with a small dock jutting out from the shore. Fireflies dot the landscape as they twinkle in the humid air. As far as locations go, it’s pretty damn romantic.

Keith is a little impatient at heart and he always will be, so as soon as his toes hit sand, he’s off like a shot, running and stripping clothes as he races to cannonball off the edge of the dock. Shiro, for what it’s worth, likes to take his time. He strolls out to the edge of the wood, toes off his boots, and sets to work carefully peeling his clothing off and folding it neatly just behind his shoes.

“Come on, old timer! We don’t have all night!”

Shiro glances up to catch another sly look from Keith and smiles as he tugs his underwear off and hops in the lake.

They swim around together for a while, talking about the summer and what’s coming up for them both after. Keith asks about Shiro’s new program, his next step, his new life out on the sunny West Coast. He does his best to keep his voice even as he describes what he thinks his future will look like. He doesn't mention the Keith-shaped hole in each image.

Keith swims close and reaches up, ruffling Shiro’s wet hair.

“I really will miss you, Takashi.”

It isn’t until later, when they’re both towel dried and strolling back to their cabins, that Shiro realizes he didn’t say it back.

 

+++

 

Three days later, Shiro is put in charge of fishing lessons. It’s his favorite activity and everyone in camp knows it, so every time it comes up, every other counselor is conveniently too busy to take it on. Funny how that works. The lessons always follow the same pattern — tying lures; baiting hooks; actual fishing; explaining the importance of catch and release; sending several squealing, fishy campers off to shower; relaxing in a hammock until dinner.

Today, the campers get a little more creative than usual with their lure designs. Shiro doesn’t mind, the act of it is what speaks to him. As a calm, slow activity that requires repetition and a bit of patience, it’s an activity tailor made for him. He walks slow circles around the group of kids hunkered over picnic tables and helps them tie off their finished products. A few of them make decent lures, but the rest...well, their parents will love the attempt anyway.

He sends the campers off to grab the camp’s supply of fishing poles, and as they do, he makes quick work of cleaning up their scraps. Everything gets shoved back into the proper boxes, but as Shiro scoops up some spare feathers, an idea dawns on him. He shoves a few of his favorites in the pocket of his shorts and snaps it shut. Just as he closes the latch on the final case, his group comes running back with their poles, and he leads them to the edge of the lake to learn the art of waiting.

They’re just tossing their first fish back in the lake, Shiro explaining the importance of releasing fish that are too small, when the sky opens up above them. He rushes his campers to the central building and thanks every god above that they have a specific back-up plan for this very occasion as he thinks over the list of indoor activities available to keep the kids occupied.

Another counselor, Allura, runs into the hall just behind him with her group of campers, and together they fish out the boxes of craft supplies to occupy what soon will be a hundred very squirmy children. Two more counselors, Hunk and Pidge, stroll in a moment later, their groups filing ahead of them in a neat line. They’re closely followed by another, Lance, and his gaggle of rowdy kids. Keith arrives very last, dragging in his scuffling, feisty group in his wake.

Once they’re all together, they set their respective craft stations up for the campers to choose between. Lance supervises painting, Hunk and Pidge demonstrate popsicle stick art, Allura helps assemble macaroni pictures, Keith shows how to weave beaded necklaces, and Shiro, like always, finds himself in charge of friendship bracelets.

The campers set to work, spinning out their afternoon with excited chatter and little hands getting gummed up with glue. Shiro is making another pass of his table when he reaches into his pocket to check his phone for the time. His fingers brush against the feathers he’d grabbed earlier in the afternoon, and he remembers his plan.

He sets to work with nimble fingers, weaving leather cord and beads, tucking the feathers lovingly in among the weave. He can’t be obvious, so he has to eyeball the size, but he’s pretty sure he gets it right. When he finishes, he tucks the bracelet carefully in his pocket right before a camper tugs him away to help with their own creation.

Later at dinner, he’s seated next to Keith at the counselors’ table, elbows lazily bumping into each other when he finally sets his fork down and reaches into his pocket.

“Gotcha somethin’,” he says casually, handing the bracelet over. Keith’s face lights up brighter than the moon over their favorite swimming hole as he shoves the leather down over slim knuckles. Keith turns his wrist this way and that, admiring the pattern and color scheme, and when his cheeks go a touch pink, Shiro’s heart stops. He’s thought, maybe, that Keith could _possibly_ return his feelings. He’s hoped, anyway.

But when Keith peeks up at him through lace delicate eyelashes and whispers, “ _Thank you, Takashi_ ,” he thinks maybe it’s more than just a possibility.

 

+++

 

The rain refuses to let up. Not only that, it also decides it’s just not heavy enough. The sky tears itself further open, dumping buckets and rivers and every other unnecessary description Shiro can think of.

For the second afternoon in a row, they gather their campers together in the main hall and set about a new day of distraction. Some campers head off to play games with Hunk, Pidge, and Lance, while others stay behind with Allura and Shiro to watch cartoons and do more crafts. Shiro grabs a stack of construction paper and art supplies, allowing the kids to settle in around him and create as they please.

When he was younger, he’d heard that folding one-thousand paper cranes brought good luck. Unfortunately, he doesn’t exactly have time for that. Instead, he folds ten and creases his love into every seam, making each crane significant in a way he will never utter aloud.

_Your sharp, beautiful eyes._

_Your biting wit and intelligence._

_Your quick defense of all you love._

_Your mad archery skills._

_Those freckles that only come out when the sun bakes your shoulders._

_That face you make when something is really funny but you don’t wanna admit it._

_That smile you get when something is really funny and you’re about to laugh._

_Your face when it gets all soft and fond._

_Your hands._

_You._

The movie ends along with the rain. Dinner is served just before everyone turns in for the night.

Shiro still needs to say it, but he just doesn’t know how.

He silently tucks the cranes into Keith’s hands with a smile and goes to bed.

 

+++

 

The last week of camp arrives, and with it, a stifling heat. All previously scheduled activities are cancelled in favor of packing the coolers full of ice pops and water bottles and sending everyone floating around the lake on inner tubes.

Crickets and cicadas chirp all around them, the buzzing of other bugs adding to the noise, and the laughter and squeals of their campers adds joy to the tunes blaring from the camp’s lakeside radio. It hits Shiro, low and nostalgic, that this will be the last week he ever spends at this lake. This is the last seven days he’ll experience of this kind of hazy joy. The last seven days, and his task remains incomplete.

Keith never brought up the paper cranes. Shiro had followed his lead. But he’s getting desperate now, the desire to blurt out his secret burning up his spine and threatening to spill out at any moment. He has to act quickly or risk his final memory of this place being that of leaving disappointed and regretful. He can’t have that. He _won’t_ have that.

He has to do something special.

As he floats along, his feet in the water, he looks up at the clouds in the sky and the leaves on the trees. His focus fades in and out as he studies his surroundings. Nothing stands out until his pool ring spins along on the current of a camper’s cannonball and he spots it. There’s a spider web stretched wide between two branches of an oak tree, gossamer threads wound tightly in a thick mass of intricate patterns. Its creator is nowhere to be seen, presumably hiding out from the sun, but small bulbs of silk dot the threads — beads created from prey, caught up in the weaving like jewels.

Shiro sits up in his pool ring. He knows what to do.

This time, the creation happens at night when he’s alone in his bunk. He works silently, planning and weaving, pulling pieces apart and reworking until he’s happy. Until it’s perfect. Leather cords and beads and big, fluffy feathers wrap delicately around a metal hoop, woven in a sunburst, carefully decorated. He finishes with two days left of camp.

The second to last evening, he sits on his bed and stares down at the creation laying in his lap, chest hammering with the force of the love he’s put into it. He’s terrified and hopeless. He can’t do it.

Shiro trudges across the camp just before dinner and lays the dreamcatcher across Keith’s pillow.

 

+++

 

The final day of camp dawns bright and shining. Birds sing in the trees, crickets chirp loudly from wherever they’re hiding, and campers frantically run around in search of missing clothing and souvenirs. The noise is downright cacophonous, but Shiro can’t bring himself to care.

It’s the last day he’ll ever see this camp. Tomorrow, he and the other counselors will pack up and leave for the summer. He still hasn’t said the words. At this rate, he doesn’t think he will.

He does his best to distract himself from literally any thought that pops into his head by diving headfirst into the throng of panicking kids. For the most part, it works. He finds himself in the oddest of places, completing the strangest of tasks (he’s still not sure how a camper even managed to get a shoe stuck in the drainpipe of a gutter, but kids do the darndest things, he supposes), and all-around running the length of the camp three times over.

Eventually, they get everyone sorted out. The doors of the final bus slide closed and the horn honks as the driver leaves to take its precious cargo off to their designated pick-up location. Shiro watches as the bright blue vehicle disappears over the horizon, fingers twisting into fists at his sides. He manages not to cry, which is an accomplishment in his opinion. After a few more moments of standing silently, he returns to his now empty cabin to pack his things.

He didn’t bring much — he never does, to allow room for the inevitable accumulation of trinkets each summer brings — but for some reason, packing up all of the gifts from his campers feels bigger than it used to. Afterwards he lays down on the bed, boots on, arms crossed under his head. Shiro contemplates his many years spent at the camp as he stares, unseeing, up at the ceiling.

He doesn’t know how much time passes before there’s a sharp knock at his cabin door. Assuming it’s Coran coming to gather him for the camp family dinner they have every year just before going their separate ways, he stands from the bed and smoothes his clothes. Being that it will be his final family dinner, Shiro can only imagine that this one will be a doozy.

That thought sits heavy with him.

He’s surprised, then, when he opens the door and a blur of messy hair and tanned limbs rush past to join him inside. The door slams closed again, and his world spins as Keith shoves him back against the unfinished wood.

“You kept giving me gifts,” Keith murmurs, leveling him with a look Shiro’s never seen before. It’s burning with intensity, but he can’t quite pin down what kind. It makes his stomach lurch. “You kept giving me gifts and I didn’t know what to do. What was I supposed to _do_ , Takashi?”

His hands tighten in the fabric of Shiro’s shirt. He shivers at the roughness in his voice, in his hands. Keith’s facial expression punches him in the gut, all intensity and fire.

“I don’t know,” Shiro admits quietly.

“Neither did I,” Keith answers. “But I figured it out the other day on a hike.”

And that’s—that’s not what Shiro expected to hear next. He was gearing up for the letdown, for the measured _look, I like you, I really do_ , but that’s not what he gets. He stays quiet as Keith reaches into his pocket. He’s swapped his camp uniform out for his regular clothing, plain black jeans with a plain white shirt. He’s always been utilitarian that way. Shiro’s stomach swoops again when Keith holds up a plain leather cord between them.

Dangling from the loop is a small acorn, pericarp painted bright, gleaming gold.

It’s a necklace. And it’s for him.

He stays perfectly still as Keith continues.

“You weren’t the only one thinking about you leaving, you know. I know you didn’t say anything, but I could see it all over you every time you thought nobody was watching. And I—I didn’t know how to talk about what I thought we needed to talk about. So I waited.”

It’s funny how alike they are. Nobody would guess it, considering how wildly different they seem from the outside. Big, calm Shiro and his best friend, tiny, spitfire Keith. But where it counts, in the measures of silence that nobody sees? They’re more alike than anything.

“You kept bringing me gifts like a goddamn crow, and I didn’t know what to do for you. So, this one day last week, right? I’m out leading those monsters up the summer trail, you know the one. The one with those oaks we used to climb?”

Shiro remembers. They spent an afternoon every summer running away together just to scale those trees and count their scrapes, the experience always worth the trouble they’d found themselves in upon their return. He nods.

“Well, they’re dropping nuts now. So here I am, walking these pipsqueaks through the forest, trying not to think about you, but really fuckin’ thinking about you, and I look down and _boom_. There’s all these little guys just laying there.”

He holds out the necklace so the acorn dangles directly in Shiro’s line of sight.

“So I picked a few up and kept on walking. I wasn’t sure, so I had to wait until night time when everyone was asleep, but I snuck into Coran’s office and googled them—and, look, that computer? That’s not a computer, that’s a _dinosaur_. But I look ‘em up, and do you know what acorns symbolize?”

Shiro’s mouth is dry. His throat is dry. His soul is dry. Keith looks so determined, and he’s so close, and Shiro is still pressed up against the door.

“I don’t.”

He’s so stupid. He’s so dumb. He doesn’t even know what acorns mean. How could Keith ever feel the same way about him when he can’t even tell him what an acorn means?

Keith breaks through his internal struggle, fitting the necklace over Shiro’s head. “They symbolize,” he says seriously, situating the cord just how he wants, “potential and strength.” Keith glances meaningfully down at Shiro’s prosthetic arm. “And gold?” he continues, lifting the acorn up between them. “Gold means courage and compassion.”

Keith carefully lays the acorn against Shiro’s chest, settling a warm palm over top of it. He swallows, loud in the deafening silence of the cabin, and looks back up at Shiro.

“It means love.”

Shiro thinks back to every interaction with Keith that lead him to the place they are now. Every adventure, every shout, every tear, every phone call and letter and email. He thinks about how Keith has always been there for him, and how he’d very much like for Keith to always be there for him. There are things to talk about, things to work out, things for Shiro and Keith to think about on their own.

But Shiro is tired of thinking.

He’s done with it.

He gathers Keith in his arms and kisses him like he should have done years ago.

**Author's Note:**

> feel free to come see me over on [tumblr](http://tootsonnewts.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/_tootsonnewts).  
> i'd love to chat!


End file.
